


Ashes All My Lust

by toujours_nigel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-16
Updated: 2010-08-16
Packaged: 2018-03-31 14:47:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3982039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toujours_nigel/pseuds/toujours_nigel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teddy hadn't noticed when Jamie grew up--but he's noticing a lot of things now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ashes All My Lust

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2010 Teddy Fest, to the prompt: Had we but world enough, and time,/ This coyness, Lady, were no crime...

It comes as some soft surprise that James Sirius Potter--Potter to teachers, James to friends, Jamie to family, and Jim to Ron Weasley, regardless of wrinkled noses--has grown up. It is a stupid thing to be surprised by, since you've seen him his entire life, you've seen him grow up, and--in the inept, charming way you've inherited from the mother you've inherited your ever-changing skin from--helped bring him up, and babysat and watched him when his parents have had to rush away at short notice, or no notice at all, and leave him with Grandmother and you. You know Jamie isn't a child anymore--is newly-sixteen, and you would have hated to be called a child at that age, though from the new, lofty height of twenty, sixteen looks laughably immature.  
  
So you knew, you _knew_ , but all your knowledge was academic, and you are bewildered, lost, and terrified to wake up to find Jamie in your bed, pressed close, limbs draped over you in possession, erection insistent against your thigh. It is not his presence that is so very much a surprise, since it is less that he is in your bed and far more that you are in his, having been put forcibly to bed after imbibing what everyone was sure would be far too much alcohol--it wasn't, Grandmother is a pureblood, a Black, and has never seen any harm in a glass of redcurrant wine with dinner, no matter that you were six when she started letting you dine with her, and two years with the Department of Mysteries have done nothing to help your non-existent teetotaler tendencies--and, anyway, you are used to sharing a bed with Jamie when you stay over at the Potters'. To wake up to find Jamie cuddled close and hogging the covers is a basic truth, an expected facet of life as Teddy Lupin, and does nothing to explain how you feel this morning, when only the birds are up and the house is silent after the madness of last night.  
  
You should wake up grumbling and tired and want to shove Jamie over to his side of the bed. You _should_ shove Jamie over to his side of the bed. You should get out of bed and hold temptation at arm's length and go home and hide from Grandmother's too-perceptive eye and simply wait for this madness to pass. There should be no temptation, in the soft curve of Jamie's cheek pressed to your shoulder, in the mad profusion of his black hair twisting with your blue curls, in the thick half-moon shadow of his eye-lashes curling against his skin--no shocking desire to trace the feathery texture of them with one trembling finger-tip--and the hint of tongue between his parted lips should not... should do nothing, should have no effect, certainly should not make you want to lean three inches closer and touch your mouth to his.  
  
You know better, you do--you know all the reasons the back of your brain is chanting in a looped litany of too young-too straight-Harry's son-Jamie-you've got a girlfriend-what do you _think_ you're thinking, Lupin-too innocent-Harry will kill you- _Victoire_ will kill you-are you mad? You know all the reasons, but you've never needed to know them, never thought them necessary--Jamie's never been tempting, never been anything but taken for granted as an almost-brother, never been this.  
  
It is the dissonance that drags you on, this gaping chasm between the Jamie you thought you knew, and the Jamie in your arms, and makes you ghost a hand over his hair, neck, the curve of his back curving his body against yours, and rest it, gossamer-light, on the swooping tilt of his hip, the bone a defined slash under your hand through the washed-thin cotton of his pyjama's. You can't pretend to commit to the action in a rush of impetuosity, since you wait the length of five shuddering breaths while Jamie shuffles closer and settles tight against your body with a contented sigh, one leg thrown over yours, before letting your hand drift to the curve of his arse and hitch him closer still, and turn on your side so his leg slides between yours, and you can press your mouth to the top of his head and pretend it is all an accident.  
  
You can pretend all of this is accidental, the product of thrashing around in sleep. You can, and nobody will think it a lie--you've woken in stranger configurations, with Jamie's knee against your throat, or with your head tipped on to his feet, hair fanned out in some strange semblance of your father's Magdalene. You can, you could, you are a coward--Uncle Draco calls it pragmatism, while Grandmother calls it a sense of self-preservation--and it would be the sensible thing to do. The truly sensible thing to do would be to run away, but you are tangled tight with Jamie, and to pull away now would wake him and break you.  
  
You can, you could, you _should_ do that--this isn't something you can afford to get tangled in, not when you have a date with Victoire in less than half a day, and Jamie is sixteen, and you don't even know whether he will want this, and you couldn't bear to hurt him, to betray his trust in you, to lose the smile he unfailingly turns on you, because you are brother and friend and companion and co-conspirator and bulwark. And you will, you will lose all of that if this goes wrong, and there is no way this can go right.  
  
And yet. And yet, when you feel Jamie blink his eyes open with a susurration of lashes against your skin, you lie still and tighten your hand on his arse and wait for him to realise how close you're pressed together--like lovers, and you've done nothing close to this with Victoire, though you've been dating a month, now, and only, really, ever with Nicholai--and wasn't that a wreck--and Jamie has never done this at all. So you tense, and brace for him to move away, and realise too late he cannot see your eyes, and must think you're asleep, because he lies still and silent for one long moment while you will your heartbeat quieter, and hope he doesn't stay as he is simply to avoid disturbing you.  
  
The stillness passes; you feel him relax, like a full-body shrug, and expect a hand pressed against your chest to grant him leverage, and prepare to loosen your hold on him and let him slide away. Instead you feel the press of lips against your throat--against the pulse-point fluttering madly in your throat, and you've lost even the semblance of steady breath, and, inevitably, Jamie says, "Teddy?" quiet like he's hoping you're asleep.  
  
But quiet, too, like he's afraid, and wants you to tell him what to do, to at least join in ignorance with him, and not leave him alone to navigate his way through this. "Yeah," you mutter, shocked at how hoarse you sound, and, "Jamie."  
  
"I'm sorry," he says, and you stop focusing on how it feels to have every syllable transformed into a kiss brushed against your skin and let yourself hear the very real guilt in his voice.  
  
"Don't be ridiculous," you say, and pause for a moment on the verge of telling him it's alright, perfectly natural, these things happen; of topping it all off with an off-colour remark about morning-wood and jokes about Jamie being all grown up. "Me too," you say instead, and gasp laughter against his temple. This is the stupidest thing you've done so far, and you've a record of detentions to rival your father's.  
  
"What about Victoire?"  
  
"I don't know," you say, and wrench back enough to see him, downcast eyes and pursed mouth and clenched jaw--a miniature of determination and desperately young. You've no right to do this to him, to involve him in something that will inevitably be complicated and messy. You've no right to touch him with intent, much less the possessiveness you feel drumming your blood into a frantic beat. "I'm sorry, Jamie."  
  
"I don't care," he says, looking up, and leans up those three miniscule inches to press his mouth to yours. It's a terrible kiss, as kisses go, chapped lips and anxiety, and the thrum of guilt that has set up in your mind is the thrum of desire that has settled in your blood.   
  
It's a terrible kiss, and it makes you grip Jamie tighter, pull him snug against you till you are pressed together from shoulder to hip with your legs entwined. Your erections brush together and Jamie breaks off the kiss to press his temple to the rise of your cheekbone and moan. You breathe in unison with him and let your heart slow its rapid pace and pull his mouth to yours again, tilting his head back, licking at his lips. It's still not the best you've had, nothing close--but the best you've had is from smirking men near twice your age at the parties Uncle Draco isn't supposed to let you attend, who kiss like a quick stop on the way to better things, and look disappointed when you politely refuse them, and glower while you slink back into the safety of Uncle Draco's company, or Mr. Zabini's.  
  
Jamie kisses like it's a competition and a prize and the best thing he's ever done, and you are achingly aware that he's never done anything of the sort before, and achingly hard--your erection is pulsing against your stomach, arousal singing through your veins and narrowing your focus to the way Jamie tastes, and the way he is hard against your thigh, and the way he shudders when you grind down against the thigh he's pressed against your crotch. "We shouldn't do this," you say, and if your words have something more than conscience motivating them--you can hear a door creaking open and shut, and to have Ginny look in to check on you would be nothing less than disastrous--they should still have the same effect.  
  
He tips up to kiss you, throat and jaw and the curve of one ear, setting his mouth to the lobe in swift little pecks that you can only feel the aftermath of--ghost-kisses. "I want to do this," he says, and, as if you are not already nearly blind with desire, adds, "I've thought about this; I've dreamt about this, Teddy, please."  
  
You roll him over at that, pin him with weight and hands and mouth, and he laughs into the kiss and rolls up against you, like this is some perverted form of rough-housing, horse-play, like every tussle you've ever had with Jamie has been a rehearsal, inevitably leading up to this, to Jamie's legs wrapped around your waist and his head tipped against the pillows, and a smile on his face that makes him look like he's won the world, and makes him look like he's a child, and spurs you on, and digs spurs into you, and reminds you how painfully young he is, and how easily you can hurt him. "I love you," you say, offering up your one surety, though certainly Jamie will think it hearts and roses where you mean only the blind confusion of sudden lust and constant affection. It's true enough, for what it is.  
  
"I love you," he says, and presses up, presses his erection against yours, and your eyes roll back in your head and you have to shut them, and shudder against his throat, kiss it, press him flat against the sheets with a hand tight on his shoulder, and use it to roll off him just enough to tuck fingers beneath the waistband of his pyjamas, and pull them down.  
  
Jamie tries to roll with you, pink suffusing his skin, eyes shuttering down and body shuddering with indrawn breath, and tries to hide against you, pull you back like a sheltering blanket. You were much the same at sixteen, or would have been if anyone had looked at you, and touched you, and wanted you like this, like you want Jamie with his wide eyes and trusting smiles and hitched breath and shocked little gasps when you wrap your hand around the heat of his prick snug against your palm.  
  
You laugh against his mouth, and press him down and spread him out, and sit on his thighs to pin him beneath you, and pull at his cock till he's rolling up to catch at your arms and kiss you, all teeth and tongue and unpractised lust, striping your belly and his with a lashing of semen you want to dip your head down to and lick up from his skin, from the pink nubs of his nipples to the hollow of his belly-button.  
  
"Teddy," he says, and again, and again, a chanting of your name like verbal fingers counting out the prayer-beads of your father's rosary, like a minor blasphemy of adoration. "Teddy, I love you; I love you so much, Teddy, Teddy, Teddy. I didn't think you'd do this. I've wanted this... well, not this exactly, but, y'know, with you."  
  
He wants hearts and roses, like as not, and twinkling fairy lights and walks by the Lake--what do boys want, who want something more with boys than a frantic bit of frottage? Whatever it is, it is nothing you can deliver. All your little knowledge of romance--painstakingly gleaned from books and Muggle films and Harry bringing home flowers for Ginny and Uncle Draco sharing glances with Mr. Zabini over wine--all of it is given over to your girls, to Victoire in the long line of them that wind their way in and out of your life, all equally disappointed, and you have nothing to give to Jamie and wouldn't give him counterfeit coin anyway.  
  
You look away, trying to find the words for it, to push them beyond the obstruction formed by your imagination, your knowledge of how this will twist Jamie's face, how this will make him feel, and he stops your mouth with a kiss, and another, scrabbling your pyjamas down, breaking the drawstring in his eagerness. "Let me," he says, leaning awkwardly against you, arm anchored over your shoulders and hand gripping your bicep, head tucked against your chest to watch the way his hand moves over your prick.  
  
Ineptitude does not excite you, as a rule, and Jamie has clearly never done this, any more than he's kissed anyone who isn't you. He's awkward, clumsy with desire and too fast, too rough, too lacking in skill to hold you balanced on the knife-edge of desire. He startles when you wrap your hand over his, pulling him down to a rhythm that doesn't threaten to take the skin off, and throws you a pleased, apologetic glance. "I love you," he says again, as though that makes everything right, instead of coating guilt over your rising desire.  
  
"I love you too," you say, averting your eyes, and twist your hand over the head of your cock in a vicious flick of the wrist that makes you gasp as much in pain as satisfaction, and spurt over your joined hands.  
  
You wait for the inevitability of guilt, flicking your changing eyes up at Jamie, resisting the urge to grow your hair down in a fringe to hide behind, to transform yourself into someone entirely disfigured, utterly undesirable--you would, were you not afraid Jamie would shame you further by pressing kisses to a leprous mouth. He looks as though he would; he looks as though it will break his heart to have you fail to match his joy, but he is glad about what is not, and you haven't that luxury. Too young-too innocent-Harry's son-Harry will kill you-Victoire will kill you-you will die of shame; and if too straight is off the list, that is still a formidable set of reasons. And best and worst of all, which makes all the reasons needless--he loves you and you don't love him.  
  
If you've known Jamie all his life, he's known you just as long, and you see comprehension dawning with slow inevitability. "I don't care,' he says, with the same fervent rush of a few minutes before, and, "I should dress; Mum's coming."  
  
You let go of him with what grace you can manage, and abandon your pyjamas in favour of the clothes folded on the chair, dragging your sweater down as Ginny tries to enter the room and is swiftly and sternly warded off--Jamie would have made a good hostess of Great-Aunt Narcissa's ilk, and will doubtless end in one of the managerial positions he scoffs at.  
  
"Jamie," you say when he has shut the door and leaned his weight against it as though he cannot hold himself up, as though he wishes he could crawl into bed and sleep--and weep, cry his heart out for the folly of letting uncaring hands touch him, but cannot do that with you present--and that breaks you, to be considered a stranger Jamie must keep up a brave front for, Jamie who you've known his entire life, Jamie who tells you all his secrets. "Jamie I'm sorry; I didn't mean to." Except that you did--you lay there wanting him; you didn't offer more than token protest; you kissed him and touched him, all the while knowing that you shouldn't.  
  
"It's alright," he says softly, as though you cannot see him breaking. "I wanted you to." Softly like he's scared. Softly like he's tired of you, like he wants to be left alone, and for all your myriad faults, you've a deep-seated tendency of giving Jamie whatever he wants, no matter how ill-advised.  
  
So you skirt past him through the door, and down to mingle and smile and easily field the hundred questions about tentative plans about life and career that Harry decides to throw at you, and avoid looking at Jamie any more or less than normal--you look at Jamie once every three minutes, you've spent sixteen years enchanted with him--and spend the day entranced by how easily and shockingly Jamie's grown up.


End file.
